


Catalyst

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cats, Christmas, M/M, Pen Pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg's not sure if the cat who spends time at his place is actually his - until he realises there's a way he can find out.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 60
Kudos: 336
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2019





	Catalyst

“Well hello, Miss Grace,” Greg murmured, ignoring his heart as it skipped a beat at the sight of her. “Haven’t seen you around here in a while.”

He opened the door to his flat, allowing the cat to precede him in. He wanted to call her ‘his’, but apart from the general air of independence, he wasn’t entirely sure what her deal was. She seemed to spend about half her time here, more sometimes. Given the long hours he worked, it was likely there was someone else who fed and sheltered her fairly regularly, and Greg couldn’t be sure if he was the first or second to be graced with her presence. Hence the name, Miss Grace.

“Hungry?” Greg murmured, smiling at the insistent answer. As if she’d ever said no when he offered, winding in and out between his legs to ensure he kept the meal preparations moving. “Well, someone’s been feeding you,” he said, stroking one hand down her back. Even though he’d barely been home in the last week, she showed no signs of neglect or excessive hunger.

As a matter of fact, as she settled on his knees later, ignoring the battered copy of _Good Omens_ Greg rested on the duvet, he noticed something new.

“Is that a collar, puss?” he asked her, reaching for it. It was white, blending into her champagne fur well enough that he didn’t notice it earlier. She twisted her neck, angling for a scratch, but he was focussed on the collar.

“What the hell?”

A small medallion hung off the collar, but as Greg turned it to look more closely, something fell out. He had inadvertently twisted out a fixture. Blinking, he stared at the small item now resting in his palm.

A compact memory stick.

Frowning, Greg wondered if this was someone’s DIY effort at microchipping their pet. He certainly shouldn’t try to read what was written on it. That would be foolish, he thought to himself, hauling his laptop from up between the bed and the bedside table. Definitely should be getting I.T. to have a look first.

There was only one file on it, and it was called, “To whomever is feeding this cat”.

Kind of addressed to him. Sort of. Enough for him to justify opening the file, at least.

_“To whom it may concern,”_ the letter began, _“May I introduce Her Grace Lady Bracknell. While not of any notable pedigree, she has been my companion for a number of years. Lately I have noticed her absences have become more regular. As her condition does not seem to have deteriorated, I assume she is courting the favours of another household in addition to my own._

_I must admit I am not the most reliable of companions – my work demands I travel at short notice, and I initially feared Her Grace had simply decided I was not worth the effort. Fortunately for us both, she does return often. Fortunately for all three of us (or four, if I am addressing a couple), she has decided to grace you with her presence as well._

_I must offer you my sincere thanks for your care of Lady Bracknell. She is dearer to me than perhaps any creature, and I am pleased others care for her with the same fondness as do I. Please do not infer from this communication that I wish for her to remain solely at my residence; indeed, I am very pleased she has another home in which she feels welcomed. If, on the other hand, you feel she has outstayed her welcome, please respond below and I shall take steps to confine her in my absence (with suitable care, of course)._

_Thank you.”_

Greg blinked.

“Well then,” he said, re-reading the funny little letter. “Probably should reply, I guess.”

Hesitating, he stared at the cursor before finally starting to type.

_“Hi,”_ he started too self-conscious to be funny or clever, _“I’m the guy your cat has been visiting. She’s no trouble – just comes and keeps me company, and she’s more than welcome to keep doing it. I work long hours too, and unpredictable ones – maybe she knows which of us is in and which is out. Pretty smart of her to find two people who don’t quite have enough time and split her time with us both. I guess that means we have shared custody? Lol just kidding, I’m pretty glad you don’t mind her coming to visit me, but I know she’s more yours than mine._

_Funny, I started calling her ‘Miss Grace’ because she graces me with her presence._

_Cheers.”_

Greg stared at it, wondering if he’d be able to make it less awkward. Probably not, he decided, saving his words as a new file called, ‘From the bloke feeding this cat’.

“We’ll see what your other friend has to say,” Greg murmured, closing his laptop and picking up his book again. Miss Grace curled up in his lap, completely at home and unaware of what had just started.

+++

To his surprise, the memory stick came back a few days later with a reply. Greg checked it each day, but as he’d seen Miss Grace every morning and evening, he hadn’t held out a lot of hope. Not that he really thought he’d get a reply. What was there to say?

_“Hello again,_

_It is precisely that aloof attitude so many cats possess that drew me to this particular feline, I must admit. My professional experience is more inclined towards people fawning or otherwise attempting to curry favour. Lady Bracknell’s attitude is refreshing._

_If shared custody is indeed the correct term, I believe the upcoming Christmas should be mine as she spent last year with you._

_I hope that meets with your approval.”_

Greg had to suppress a grin. For all the posh language this person was using, there was a dry sense of humour there, one that he found very entertaining.

_“Hi,_

_Geez, I’d love a day with people who are actually nice to me – I’d even be okay with fawning. I’m usually trying to convince people to talk to me, or else it’s me trying to get the favour done from my team. I’d be happy with a cat that was into snuggles but I’d feel too guilty, I’m not around enough._

_Lady Bracknell – is that named after the woman in ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’? She was fairly aloof herself, if I remember. Is that where the name comes from?_

_As for Christmas – she wasn’t with me, I was working. But you can have Christmas if I can have New Years’.”_

The response was quick, in a new file named, ‘Conversation – ongoing,’ which contained their exchange so far.

_“I am sharing this with you with the understanding that it remains between the two of us. Lady Bracknell is named after the Oscar Wilde character, yes, as I played the role in Sixth Form. It is traditionally a drag role, and as I was the only student tall enough to carry off the regal bearing and ridiculous hat, my audition was hardly required._

_Snuggles, I am lead to believe, can be therapeutic, though I find too much personal contact to be cloying. It is a rare event, I must admit – I don’t remember the last time I experienced the intimacy of such contact._

_Christmas and New Years’ TBC.”_

Greg smirked. This guy was willing to play along a little, and it was kind of fun to have an anonymous someone to be honest with.

_“Hugging is definitely something I miss. One of my single friends says sex is the thing, but for me it’s the little touches that make the difference. Sex is easier to find than real intimacy._

_Your secret about Lady Bracknell will go with me to the grave. Having said that, a picture of you in character would do a lot for my mood – it’s been a bloody long week and a giggle would go a long way.”_

+++

_“Sadly, no pictures survived. I was very thorough. The dress was white trimmed with lavender, which would have clashed magnificently with my red hair had a large brunette wig not been covering it. Had you known me, you would hardly have recognised me, I can assure you. My brother, bound to come by my mother’s wishes, snorted laughter most unbecomingly throughout the second act. I’m sure he missed the subtlety of my work.”_

“So he’s a redhead, is he?” Greg murmured, scratching Miss Grace under the chin. “Not a bad thing at all.” He grinned at her. “Don’t tell him, but a picture would certainly help my morning shower. Actually you probably don’t need to know that. Hardly the kind of thing I should be telling a proper lady such as yourself.”

_“I’ll do my best to imagine you in costume. I won’t lie, the lack of photos is a drag (do you see what I did there?)._

_I noticed you avoided the hug/sex conversation, but I won’t chase it. I’m kind of enjoying this conversation.”_

+++

_“As am I. My apologies that this reply has taken so long – I had not seen Lady Bracknell for over a week. Several of those days I was overseas, but I wondered if she was cross with me when I did not see her for several days on my return. I can see she is well, however, so I must again thank you for your care.”_

Greg was relieved to see a response to his previous message. He’d worried his comment might have worried his penpal off, and Miss Grace had been around every day that week. He’d been in late himself, but she was often curled up on his doormat waiting for him.

_“As I said, she’s no problem – seems to be very good at keeping herself entertained. It’s getting colder outside now, I hope she has ways and means of keeping herself warm.”_

_+++_

_“If you are attempting to circumnavigate your way back to the ‘hug/sex’ conversation, as you put it, your effort is transparent. I am trained to identify subterfuge._

_I tend to agree with your views vis-a-vie sex and intimacy. My experience of both is limited, but I find myself yearning more towards emotional closeness than the physicality of sex.”_

Greg grinned. This guy’s sense of humour was right up his alley, and he managed to combine an amusing comment with a startlingly personal admission. It set Greg wondering, as he flicked on the kettle. How solitary was this guy? Between his work hours and admitted lack of personal relationships, it sounded like a lonely existence.

Greg didn’t examine the parallels to his own life too closely. Still feeling wary of scaring this guy off, he focussed on the joke instead.

_“’Trained to identify subterfuge?’ Wow, next thing you’re going to tell me you have some kind of a minor role for the British Government but you’re actually a high up MI5 agent or something.”_

_PS Please don’t have me killed. Who’d care for Miss Grace?”_

_+++_

_“We no longer outsource eliminating threats to national security. Regrettably, I would be forced to commit the act myself. It would be highly inconvenient, so if you promise not to tell anyone, we can leave it there.”_

_I have to meet this man._

The thought hit Greg powerfully, standing as he was at his bench. He’d given up waiting until he was in bed to check Miss Grace’s memory stick – as soon as he was inside, keys dropped on the table, he hauled out his laptop, impatient to see if there was a reply. The break between comments was rarely more than a few days, unless his correspondent was overseas, and yet he wanted more.

_“I’m good with secrets. Scouts honour – I’ll tuck that secret away with the Lady Bracknell.”_

_+++_

_“It sounds as though you keep a lot of secrets. Perhaps it is I that should be worried about your MI5 connections?”_

Carefully, Greg crafted a reply. He scrolled back, wondering if his admission here would be the deal breaker. He doubted it, but you never knew. It was still a risk, and his heart pounded just a little as he typed the words.

_“Unlikely. My secrets are more just things I don’t talk about. Doesn’t pay to be a man interested in men where I’m working.”_

The response came the following day; Greg let out an explosive breath when he read it, but there was no time to reply. He had ten minutes for a shower, throwing some dry food in a bowl for the cat. “Sorry sweetheart,” he murmured. “Work’s brutal this week. Maybe go check out your other house for a couple of days.”

_“I must agree. My employer does not openly discourage it, of course, but there are some unpleasant individuals who would use the knowledge as a weapon.”_

_+++_

_“Sorry, been busy again. Late nights again and again. I remember when I used to have a life! Sorry, I don’t mean to complain. I knew what this job was about when I started it._

_Do you remember what you’d do with your free time before work took over?”_

_+++_

_“Free time is not something I have often had at my disposal. I favoured studying modern languages and music. The modern languages are useful in my work. The music, I do miss. My piano is criminally out of tune, I fear.”_

Musical. Greg groaned. The only pianist he’d ever dated had the most exquisite hands, long pale fingers and an incredibly deft touch. His own increasingly vivid imaginings now had an added layer as his penpal revealed small details about himself.

“Modern languages too,” Greg murmured. A shiver rolled down his spine as he imagined long fingers trailing the same path, a voice whispering in French, Spanish, Italian, hot and dark in his ear. “Jesus, Miss Grace, who is this guy?”

_“Criminally? Lol, I won’t tell if you don’t. Sounds like you’re a pretty smart guy. I played a lot of football. Used to run, but I blew out my knee when I was twenty or so. I did sing in a band for a while, but everyone kind of drifted away._

_Maybe we can sing some carols together, if we do a shared custody Christmas. My favourite is Frosty the Snowman, if you’re interested.”_

Greg grinned, wondering if this guy would even know ‘Frosty the Snowman’. He had a feeling, with his posh words and piano background, it would be a more traditional repertoire he’d be familiar with.

_“Frosty the Snowman is not a song with which I am familiar, but on examination of the lyrics, I wonder what makes it a Christmas carol? The lyrics make no mention of the season at all. I will endeavour to learn the music if you will agree to sing the lyrics. I prefer more traditional airs. Hark the Herald Angels Sing is perhaps a song I favour over others.”_

Greg grinned. This was feeling more and more like flirting, and as the nights closed in earlier and colder, he held the words close to his chest.

_“You play it at Christmas, so it’s a carol. Well, we played it at Christmas. Sounds like you didn’t. You don’t have to learn it if you don’t want, I can sing Hark the Herald Angels Sing instead. How does this lady feel about your playing? Are we going to frighten her off?”_

It was almost Christmas by the time Greg heard back, and the season was beginning to wear on him.

_“My apologies, I was drawn out of the country unexpectedly. I doubt we shall scare off our charge. On the rare occasions she hears me play, she sits outside. I presume the sound is not entirely alarming as she is there when I finish.”_

_+++_

_“I probably won’t hear from you again before Christmas, I’m on the early shift but if it’s busy I’ll stay so one of the young guys can go home to their family. Merry Christmas. I hope it’s a good one, whatever you end up doing.”_

_+++_

_“And to you as well. I worked, as I so often do, but I did find time for some music. My piano is not as out of tune as I feared. I played both Hark the Herald Angels Sing and Frosty the Snowman. Merry Christmas.”_

Greg tossed his keys on the table in the entrance, not even caring that they slid off onto the floor. It had been a long shift yesterday and he’d backed it up today as he often did. His aim was to survive the Christmas period in one piece and this year he’d only just got it in under the wire.

The memory stick was still in his computer, waiting for his response. He’d dropped in briefly at some point between yesterday and today to find Miss Grace waiting for him, and the twenty seconds it took him to read the few words were the best of his long, depressing day. Before he crashed out, he wanted to reply, and the words flowed without almost any censorship.

_“It’s super late, I can’t believe Miss Grace is even up at this hour. I worked all day today – it’s Boxing Day, and one of my colleagues brought in the most depressing Christmas mix ever, all songs about being lonely and missing your family and stuff. I made her put it away, but before I did she played this song, and it reminded me of you. I might regret sending this off, but it’s the middle of the night, and I’m here with just my cat, who isn’t even entirely my cat, she’s shared with you, and I don’t even know you. But anyway, look up this link.”_

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YR1ujXx2p-I>

Waking the next day, a lot closer to noon than he usually did, Greg groaned when he remembered what he’d written. It was almost as bad as drunk texting people. Not for him, though – he ‘fatigue messaged-with-a-cat’ his penpal. And with a soppy romantic ‘I miss you’ Christmas song. There was no way the guy would get back to him now.

It was true, though. Sally brought in her Christmas mix, and it was basically a bunch of ‘I’m so lonely’ ballads that made Greg feel like shit. Even the link he’d sent off with Miss Grace had brought him down. He wanted to meet the guy on the other end of his, well, cat. The guy that made him laugh, that he had something in common with, even if it was just a workaholic lifestyle and a cat who’d chosen them both.

Without warning a cream blur landed on his bed with a soft whump, small feet delicately padding up his body until Miss Grace’s nose bumped his own.

“Good morning,” Greg greeted her. “Been out and about, have you?”

She trilled at him, bumping his cheek with her nose.

_She might have been out and back by now._

The idea hit Greg, and suddenly he was wide awake, heart thudding at the idea. He reached for her collar, fingers clumsy with anticipation. The memory stick was still there, that was a relief. He jammed it into his laptop, cursing the few seconds it took to recognise the new hardware before looking for their conversation file.

 _Updated 6.21am TODAY_ , the screen told him. That was after he’d added his last comment. Hours after. There must be a reply. Carefully, Greg clicked on it, scrolling down to the bottom while looking at Miss Grace.

“Here goes,” he muttered to her.

_“A beautiful song. Thank you for sharing it with me. I was reluctant to be the first to express how fond I have become of our exchange. Interpersonal relationships are neither my natural forte nor my area of expertise.”_

Greg blew out an explosive breath. It was okay, then. The guy was actually not turned off by the random blast of sentimentality. Okay. Give the wary tone of the message, he knew he’d need to take things slowly.

_“Maybe next year we can plan a joint Christmas. Tell all our colleagues to shove it and just sit around singing carols and eating pudding.”_

The New Year came and went before Greg saw a response.

_“That sounds wonderful. Far more enticing than my perfunctory family event this year._

_Speaking of food - have you notice Miss Grace behaving abnormally? She has not been eating as much as usual and my cleaner mentioned several episodes of vomiting.”_

Greg frowned. “Are you not well, Miss?” he asked the cat sitting on his feet.

She purred at him, looking up with calm eyes. Greg thought back. He’d been at work most of the week, but before that he’d had to empty out her bowl a couple of times, the uneaten food attracting mice. And there had been that one revolting puddle of half-digested food, too.

_“Yeah, I work every year. Easier than sitting at home, and it gives the others with families a chance to spend it together. Doesn’t always happen in my job, it’s the least I can do._

_Vomiting and lack of appetite? Now you mention it, she hasn’t been eating a lot. She was sick earlier this week, but I haven’t seen her a lot (work. Always work.)”_

Greg kept an eye on Miss Grace. She seemed a little off, but there was nothing he could put his finger on. She started eating more and he didn’t find any more cat vomit (thank God).

_“I am sorry work has become so busy. I have also been required to work longer hours than usual. Apologies for the delay in this reply._

_Based on Lady Bracknell’s increased appetite, I can say she is no longer feeling ill. Her food bowl has been emptied each day this week. I hope this does not mean you are working every evening.”_

Greg stretched, reading the message twice before turning to look at Miss Grace. They’d been seeing a lot of each other this week – his hours were more regular, even if his boss was having a heart attack at the lack of progress. Greg’d shrugged at him, pointing out that without an overtime budget, there was only so much they could do in a nine hour shift.

“You’re looking brighter,” Greg murmured. “And is your tummy a bit rounder?” He grinned. “You’ve been working us both, haven’t you, cheeky girl?” He scratched under her jaw, the left side like she preferred, before answering the message in front of him.

“Go on, take that to your other house,” he told her, fixing the memory stick back to her collar.

_“Wait, what? I’ve seen her every day this week. After the nightmare I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, we’re on an overtime freeze so I’m sending everyone home at 5 on the dot. And she’s been eating here, too. She’s definitely looking rounder – little minx has been double dipping!”_

+++

Greg yawned, pausing to steady himself as he went from dead asleep to standing in two seconds flat. The banging on his door managed to be polite and insistent at the same time.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he muttered, scratching his head as he stumbled through the darkened rooms.

“Gregory,” his visitor greeted him, barely suppressed energy behind the word.

He blinked.

“Mycroft?” Greg blinked again. “What are you doing here?” The question almost trailed off as he realised Mycroft was wearing jeans that looked as soft and worn as anyone’s favourite pair. A deep green long sleeved jumper, some kind of fine wool, sat over a long sleeved t shirt; the cuffs and neckline were visible.

_I am not awake enough to deal with this._

“Might I come in?”

As soon as Greg nodded, he moved past and into the room.

“What is it?” Greg asked. “Assume it’s not Sherlock.”

“No,” Mycroft replied. He stood for a long minute, looking at Greg as though trying to see something.

“What?” Greg asked. When Mycroft didn’t reply, Greg said again, “What is it? You’re kind of freaking me out, not saying anything.”

Mycroft seemed to shake himself. “My apologies. My evening has been rather unusual, and I find myself here quite unexpectedly.”

Greg blinked, still not awake enough to unravel whatever Mycroft was trying to say. “Start from the start, Mycroft.” He sat, inviting Mycroft to do the same.

They sat at opposite ends of the sofa. Mycroft hesitated, then started.

“I arrived home from work at 9pm to find my cat giving birth to a litter of kittens.”

Greg nodded slowly. Not what he had expected Mycroft to say. “Okay,” he said, trusting that this was going somewhere.

Mycroft took a deep breath. “My cat is somewhat free with her affection, and I recently suspected she had been frequenting another house in my absences.” Greg felt the back of his neck start to tingle as the hairs stood on end. “I have been exchanging messages with another man, and when I realised Lady Bracknell had a litter of kittens,” he swallowed, “I had to tell you.”

The world surely shuddered to a halt for a long, breathless moment.

“How did you find me?” Greg asked. His mind was reeling, snippets of their conversation rolling through his brain as he stared at Mycroft.

_Merry Christmas, Darling. Holy shit, you sent that to MYCROFT._

“Lady Bracknell’s microchip has a GPS transponder in it, should she ever go missing for an extended length of time. It is recorded but not monitored.”

“You looked to see where she was going,” Greg filled in. “And it was here.”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured.

“How is she?” Greg asked. “Jesus, she’s pregnant? How many kittens are there? Are they alright?”

“Lady Bracknell – or Miss Grace, as you prefer to call her – is fine. Five kittens in total, all perfect.” Mycroft smiled. “I presume she had been freer with her favours than either of us suspected.”

Greg chuckled. There was that wit he’d come to know. Funny, he’d never even considered he might know the man on the other end of the cat. He had the immediate desire to go back and read their correspondence again, knowing it was Mycroft. The new perspective would be fascinating.

“Did you know it was me?” Greg asked. “I had no idea it was you.”

“No,” Mycroft replied, colouring. “I admit I would not have been so open had I realised.”

“It’s easier with someone you don’t know,” Greg agreed. A slightly awkward silence fell, and he imagined Mycroft was thinking the same as he. _Now we know each other. And that closeness that was developing, what’s happening with that now?_

“So, can I come to meet the kids?”

“The kids?” Mycroft repeated.

“The kittens, Mycroft,” Greg explained with a grin.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. He stood up, looking at Greg expectantly.

“What, right now?” Greg said. “I have to work in…Jesus, not enough hours.”

“Your paternity leave will be approved,” Mycroft said smoothly, “if you would like to take it.”

“Paternity?” Greg repeated, the grin spreading over his face at the idea. He shook his head. “Let’s just make it unspecified, and thanks. I’ll just get dressed.”

++++

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Mycroft’s flat. Security let them through of course; Greg tried not to stare at the obvious, though understated, wealth of the place.

“A perk of the job, I’m afraid,” Mycroft murmured. “Not my personal property.”

“Right,” Greg replied. He followed Mycroft through to a small room behind the kitchen.

“She often sits here while I work,” Mycroft said quietly, dropping to his knees before his desk. Greg joined him, acutely aware of how their shoulders brushed as they both tried to distinguish kittens from the purring mother.

“Hello, Miss Grace,” Greg murmured. “That’s a colourful bunch you’ve got there. Aren’t you a clever girl?”

She mewed at him, and he grinned.

“I daren’t move her,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah,” agreed Greg. He winced, even the soft carpet too much for his knees, and leaned to the side, putting his weight on his hip and one hand instead. “She looks pretty comfortable. And she must feel safe under there.”

“She must,” Mycroft replied. He reached one hand out to her, and she trilled at him, nuzzling his fingers. “Greg is right, you are a very clever girl,” he murmured, his voice warm and deep like honey.

“I’m not paying for private schools,” Greg murmured. “Not for five of them.”

“Shared custody was your suggestion, if I recall,” Mycroft said, turning to face Greg. His eyes were warm on Greg’s. Happier than Greg had ever seen, actually.

“Are you…what should we do about…” Greg bit off, frustrated.

“This?” Mycroft indicated the mass of fur under his desk.

“Well, yes,” Greg said, “but I actually meant…the letters.” A deep breath for courage. “Us.”

“Our correspondence?” Mycroft asked.

“It was fun,” Greg said, rolling his eyes internally at the asinine description. “Wasn’t it?”

“I will admit to a certain anticipation,” Mycroft allowed.

“Okay,” Greg said. He had no idea how to ask the question that was swarming around his head. Better to think about it and get it right. “Look, I should go.”

“Stay,” Mycroft blurted, then blushed. He stood in one smooth movement, leaving Greg to scramble up behind him.

“Wait,” Greg said, catching him at the office door. “Stay?” he asked.

“When I realised my correspondent was you,” Mycroft said, his gaze drifting away in embarrassment, “I was…pleased.”

“Pleased.” Greg repeated. “Why?”

“I felt a connection to the person to whom I was writing,” Mycroft admitted. His eyes closed in mortification. “I am – as you know – inexperienced with relationships, and did not know how to- oh!”

Greg’s hand on Mycroft’s cheek stopped the words rather dramatically. He’d smiled to himself, watching Mycroft stumble through his explanation for a moment before he moved. Now he could see Mycroft’s eyes, which had flown open at his touch. They were wide and vulnerable and utterly adorable.

“This might be a start,” Greg murmured. “Can I kiss you?”

Mycroft may have whimpered, but Greg couldn’t be sure.

He definitely nodded, though, and Greg wasted no time closing the gap between them entirely, bringing his other hand up to press on Mycroft’s hip, guiding him back against the doorframe.

“I think,” Greg said, when they finally parted, “we should read our letters again.”

“Aloud?” Mycroft whispered.

“Yep,” Greg said. He saw the hesitation in Mycroft’s face. “Hey,” he said, thumb brushing over Mycroft’s cheek. “I already know the things. I just didn’t know they were you.”

“Are you certain,” Mycroft started. “Are you sure it’s…alright?”

“What, that it’s you?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded, biting his bottom lip.

“Very alright,” Greg replied. “No way I’d’ve had the guts approached you in real life, but I am very pleased we’ve gotten to know each other.”

“As am I,” Mycroft murmured.

“Perhaps we could get to know each other better right now?” Greg asked, kissing a line along Mycroft’s jaw and whispering in his ear, deliberately hot and low. “Make good use of my paternity leave.”

Mycroft huffed something that could be a laugh or a groan. His fingers bit into Greg’s hips. “Yes,” he breathed. “Though we should check on Lady Bracknell first.”

“I’m still going to call her Miss Grace, I think,” Greg agreed. “Habit.”

“Of course,” Mycroft gasped, arching as Greg’s tongue lazily explored the shape of his earlobe.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” Greg murmured. “I know it’s a bit late, but…”

“No,” Mycroft corrected, pushing back so they could look at each other. “Your timing is perfect.”


End file.
